


Quietly

by bloodandcream



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, mostly just feels, vaguely porny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they come together it's quietly, quietly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quietly

When they come together it’s quietly, quietly.

Sam cherishes the easy silence they’ve painstakingly cultivated between them over years of revised opinions and second chances. 

There’s too much noise in his life. The heavy crackling of fire devouring wood and bones, burning through his memories. The steady rumble of a car and it’s tires crawling over asphalt, gravel, rutted dirt roads, that had been the lullaby of his childhood. The pop and roar of gunshot blasts that echo in you bones and leave your ears ringing. He couldn’t even count all the different noises dying monsters make, their death rattles smudged through his consciousness, more threads in the tapestry of noises.

He can still hear the cries of the damned in hell. He can still hear the crooning lilt of Lucifer’s voice in the darkest parts of his soul. Lucifer would impart secrets to him like cherished wisdom father to son, sew them into his skin, bury lies in his mind to bloom tangles of creeping weeds. 

Perhaps the loudest noise in Sam’s life is his brother. He knows the noises of Dean in every part of his body. His arms know the sounds of his brother in battle, when to turn and toss them up in guard, when to swing and slash and stab, when to reach and push his brother out of harms way or pull him closer for protection. He knows the sounds of Dean’s panic in his legs, they carry him closer, crouch next to the panting sounds of his wounded brother, lift strong and anchor firm when the noises are terrifying. He knows the sounds of Dean’s pain in his hands, that have mended so many wounds to barely a gasp of shuddering breath, that have soothed the angry creases of a drunk furrowed brow when the noises were low sobs, these hands know how to quiet and comfort the endless expanses of Dean’s sorrow. 

He can still hear the horrible screams of his brother - Sammy no don’t you do this to me - the riotous noises of their fights laced with betrayal and misunderstanding and grief, can hear him - Sammy I can’t do this alone - even half dead or there already he could still hear the noises of his brother begging, needing.

There’s too much noise in his life so when they come together it’s quietly. Hands just a whisper on bare skin, legs twisting and tangling with unspoken promises, lips and tongues curling with languages that need no words for expression, bodies have their own sort of communication.

When the springs of an old motel bed creak too much, or the wobbling legs of a rickety table tucked in a dusty corner of the bunker scrapes against the floor, or slick wet slaps of hands against the tile in a shower becomes too noisy to intrude on their quiet, they slow and still, letting the silence seep back into fingers, draping around them like a security blanket, something to hide from the world under, something safe. Moving again when the quiet returns they let it build slowly, steadily, the tension and heat of their connected bodies, unhurried, the profound quietude preceding a tempest, the reverent hush before the waves crash in. 

Sam often wonders if Castiel’s world is too noisy as well, if Castiel has understood without him asking why Sam wants their time to be quiet. It feels not so much that Castiel simply knows, it feels more as though Castiel needs the quiet as well. 

He wonders what it is like to hear multitudes of siblings in one’s head, what the wavelength Castiel is tuned to sounds like; it’s not even something that can be compared to the auditory range a human is capable of hearing. Sam wonders what the whispers of swallowed souls sounded like before they devoured the angel whole and left him shredded. He wonders if the borrowed grace crammed ill fitting into Castiel’s vessel sounds different at all from what Castiel is used to, if it makes the world sound different, if it sounds at all like the angel it was ripped from. 

Sam would like to know what a prayer sounds like, what his prayers have sounded like. If they come through clarion and simple in the voice of the asker, if they come through laced with the desperation and need that bore them, if they are distant sounds muddied amongst one another vying to be heard. 

Whatever noises that Castiel hears, Sam suspects the angel craves the quiet moments as much as he does. 

The angel is a creature adept to the silence, stealthy and accustomed to being an unobtrusive presence. Even when Sam has seen him touch his hand to the forehead of a demon and burn it out, he is quiet. When Sam has seen him sink his silver blade into the chest of a brother, despite the noise written across his face and screaming in his eyes, he is quiet. 

Castiel has always reminded him of a library, ancient and vast and holding so much promise. His mind is an old tome, handwritten by monks in precise graceful scrawling, containing more knowledge than Sam could ever absorb a minute fraction of. His hands are parchment scrolls, uncurling carefully, the stories of eons in the lines of his palms.

Sam is reverential when he speaks silently with his hands, seeking absolution for the comfort he gives with understanding. It’s quiet between them when they wrap up in each other, but there are stories to be learned etched along the planes of their bodies. Even recently remade and healed with divinity there is a lattice of scars down Sam’s hard used body. Unimportant silver slivers from monsters claws and teeth, a ladder of faded lines up his forearm from letting blood as proof or payment.

The scar across his palm that had served as stop gap desperation is stark and raised. When the veil between the external and internal had been so thin and flimsy he could slip through without knowing, lost, unaware of what reality he was inhabiting, this scar now healed over had been opened and reused, an anchor keeping his wildly rocking boat somewhat in place.

Castiel’s body is smooth like the great plains, not a rocky mountain range of marks like Sam’s, but he still remembers and he swears the tips of his fingers can feel where the angel has cut himself open for them. The lines of an angel banishment echo between the spaces of his ribs. Down one side are the stark black curls of Enochian that hide the angel from his brother’s, Sam can see them whispered on pink lips when he trails his fingers over the words. 

When they come together with moments stolen selfishly from the mess of their lives, the quiet is a balm. Desperate hands will say enough of the things they won’t, wide open palms begging for forgiveness and digging needing fingers pressing apologies into each other’s skin. He chokes on guilt so thick sometimes he thinks he couldn’t talk if he wanted to. 

They weave the tiny moments of silence into their tapestries like breaks between the screaming, a necessary breather, a moment for recuperation. It’s hard to hear how loud their worlds are shouting without pausing to listen to the silence sometimes. 

When they come together it’s quietly, quietly.


End file.
